


Stress Relief

by audenrain



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Comfort Sex, F/F, F/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Threesome, Threesome - F/F/M, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 12:13:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4478828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audenrain/pseuds/audenrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a prompt on the kink meme: Hawke is stressed, anxious, upset, overwhelmed - you know, everything that goes with your whole family dying and your city on the brink of disaster. Her best friends Isabela and Varric volunteer to help out with some stress relief one night, no strings attached.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stress Relief

It seems to start out almost as a joke, as offhand remark that’s just typical of Isabela. They’re just having a quiet night in – or as quiet as any of them can get, meaning Isabela’s already somehow talked them into moving their little party upstairs and onto Hawke’s bed, somewhere along the way they all lost their shoes, and they’re drinking straight out of the bottle of wine they’ve been sharing, no glasses required.

Isabela, leaning back against one of the posts at the foot of the bed, looks like pure desire – without her boots, her legs are long and dark and long, stretched out beside Hawke’s. Hawke could put a hand on one, if she had the nerve.

Isabela, taking a swig of wine, takes a moment to swipe a careful tongue across the lip of the bottle to catch any stray drops, and she watches Hawke the whole time. Varric, sitting next to Hawke with his back against the headboard, snorts.

“If you and the bottle have had your moment?” he says, reaching for it. Isabela hands it over with a smile.

“You know, darling,” she says to Hawke, crossing her arms – and oh, what that does to her cleavage – “it really does break my heart.”

“What’s that?” Hawke asks, accepting the bottle from Varric. She’s only just beginning to feel the faint buzz of the alcohol, so there’s no good reason for her to feel quite so warm and flustered, but she takes another drink anyway.

“How little this city appreciates what you do for it,” Isabela says. She slides her bare foot along Hawke’s leg, warm even through Hawke’s leggings. “How little we show our… appreciation.”

Hawke doesn’t know what to say to the innuendo weighing down that word, so as usual, she deflects to humour. “Oh, well, I suppose I could start demanding backrubs or sponge baths or some such, but just think how long that would take. How many people live in Kirkwall again?”

Isabela laughs, taking the bottle when Hawke offers it but then placing it gently on the floor by the bed. “I was thinking of something a little more… intimate,” she says. Her hand lands on Hawke’s knee, her thumb rubbing slow circles on Hawke’s thigh. Hawke swallows hard, the taste of the wine still a little sweet in the back of her throat. She wants to press her thighs tighter together, anything to get pressure where she’s suddenly hot and aching.

“Just a little R&R, but certainly nothing to which I would invite all of Kirkwall,” Isabella continues, leaning forward and letting her hand slide up Hawke’s thigh with the movement. “Perhaps our dwarven friend, here, though. He does have marvelously large hands, don’t you think?”

Hawke had almost forgotten Varric’s presence at her side, but when she looks over he’s grinning at Isabela. “Rivaini, you are a delight,” he says, a hint of disbelief in his rumbling voice. “I always like the way you think.”

He does have very nice hands, Hawke admits to herself, strong and sure. Isabela is slowly advancing, molding her soft curves to Hawke’s more athletic frame, but when Hawke reaches up to touch her, Isabela takes her hands in a gentle grip. “No,” she says, “you’ll not be focusing on anyone but yourself tonight.” She kisses the tip of Hawke’s nose, then, an absurdly sweet gesture considering her obscene proposal. This close, Hawke can see all of her little freckles, delicate dark patterns across her nose and cheeks, and one that sits right on her bottom lip, begging to be kissed.

Isabela lets her have that, at least, a slow, deep, filthy kiss that is just how she thought it would be, sending shocks to Hawke’s fingertips. There is a quick, sharp scrape of teeth on her bottom lip when Isabela pulls away, and Hawke’s cunt throbs. Hell, she had forgotten what it felt like to be touched. “No one but yourself,” Isabela says again, beginning a slow descent back down Hawke’s body.  
“But you should—”

“Hush, sweet thing,” Isabela says, her voice kind but stern, and all the words die in Hawke’s throat. Her tongue feels heavy. Her limbs feel heavier: Isabela is pushing Hawke’s tunic up around her hips and then peeling off the black leggings, and Hawke stares down at her in mute shock. She knows she’s wet; she wonders if it shows through her smallclothes. If Isabela can smell it.

Isabela begins to kiss her way up Hawke’s inner thigh, starting at the knee, eyes on Hawke’s the whole time.

“Listen to Rivaini,” Varric says, his voice taking on that cadence it does when he’s working himself up to tell a really good story. He has such a wonderful voice, does Varric – there’s a playful curl to his tone that makes all kinds of promises. “When’s the last time anyone did something for you? Let someone else take care of things for a change.”

He’s sliding closer to her on the bed, and then tugging her closer, too, till she’s leaning against him – slumped halfway down the headboard as she is, she’s just the right height for him to slip an arm around her shoulders. “I think this should come off,” he says, fingering the hem of her tunic, “don’t you?”

She starts to reach up to the top button, but he bats her hands away with a little tsk. “Weren’t you listening?” he admonishes. His voice is getting deeper by the moment, she swears, thrumming in his chest against her back, and she shivers at the heat of his breath on her ear. “You’re supposed to get taken care of.”

And then he unbuttons it for her, surprisingly deft for only having one free hand, and thank the Maker she’d been too lazy to put on a breastband today. 

“Come on,” he says, and tugs her even closer until her back is against his chest and her arms are trapped between them, still in the sleeves of her open shirt.

Down at her hips, Isabela lets out a long, appreciate hum. “Lovely,” she says, and abruptly tugs Hawke’s smallclothes down her legs and tosses them across the room. Hawke clenches her fists, suddenly a little anxious, so exposed and vulnerable while the two of them are clothed and so calm and collected and – and in control, which is really something she’s forgotten how not to be.

Varric’s hand settles, flat on her stomach, fingers splayed wide but touching nothing indecent. It’s a little grounding, somehow. He must feel the tension of her hands, because he says, in a careful tone, “If you’re uncomfortable, Hawke, if this isn’t fun for you—”

“Oh,” she says, and she has never heard her voice go that high before – “it’s not that – it’s just—”

“Does she know how lovely she is?” Isabela asks, conversationally, her face still mere inches from Hawke’s cunt.

“I certainly hope so,” Varric answers, dropping his head to kiss the side of her neck. His stubble rasps against the soft skin there, and somehow that feels even better than the kiss, and she sucks in a ragged breath as her head starts to spin. Isabela’s fingers slide up the seam of her, drawing through her wetness but not pressing quite hard enough anywhere – but when she tries to buck up, to force it, Varric’s hand on her lower stomach is no longer a gentle weight but a solid resistance, holding her exactly where Isabela wants her.

“It’s hard to imagine you not knowing,” Varric says, his voice thrumming against her neck. He nips once at the pulse point just beneath her jaw before raising his head to do the same to her earlobe. She’s never even thought about her ears before, but it makes her breath hitch, and he smiles against her hair. “Those legs of yours, all long lean muscle, and the way you walk around on them like anything that gets in your way might not even live to regret it.” His hand slides up her front to brush the bottom of her breast, and she doesn’t even bother trying to arch up this time, knowing he’s doing things exactly at his own pace. “I saw you break a thug’s neck with them once, do you remember that? You did this great acrobatic move, landed on his shoulders, and just—” He flicks a thumb over her nipple, then, just as Isabela parts her folds and drags her tongue across Hawke’s clit. Hawke cries out, her toes curling against the sheets, and Varric's hand covers her whole breast, now, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his palm.

"After that," Varric says, raising his voice just a little because Hawke can hardly hear him over the sound of her own voice, whimpering with each stroke and flick of Isabela's clever tongue - "After that, I couldn't stop thinking about you wrapped those legs around my neck. Different reason, of course, hopefully a little less fatal, but I could spend days down there. I bet you taste incredible."

"Mm-hmmm," says Isabela, the vibrations on her clit sending shocks of pleasure all over her body. It's hard to get enough air, every breath a shaky gasp that only seems to make her head feel lighter, her pulse more frantic. Varric strokes a soothing hand down her front from throat to navel, like calming a spooked animal.

"You okay there, Hawke?" he says, his voice so fond that she really believes him - he would do it, worship her with his mouth till they were both sore, till her cunt ached from the attention and her thighs stung red from the scrape of his stubble. She wouldn't mind that at all.

"Yes," she gasps, both at the image and in answer to his question, and Isabela takes this as leave to slip further down and press, with fingers and tongue, at Hawke's entrance. She squirms in Varric's hands, halfheartedly, but he holds her fast and makes soft soothing sounds.

"I don't know how I didn't see this before," he says, teasing circles with his fingers around her nipple. The arm around her shoulders tugs her even closer, until he can drop that hand and cup her other breast, too; his touches are so light, now, though she knows they could strengthen in a moment if she tries to hurry things along. "You take care of so many people, and no one's around to take care of you. It's criminal, Hawke, because a woman like you ought to have a harem at your beck and call."

She laughs, a little breathless and hysterical, but he leans his head down to bite the point of her shoulder. "Oh, no," he says. "I mean it. You should see your ass. Duels could be fought over it."

Isabela's tongue delves deeper inside her and it's wonderful, it is, but she misses the touch on her clit, too - why must Isabela be such a tease -

Varric's hand slides down again, farther than before, as if he's reading her mind. She moans, a long, utterly helpless sound, when his fingers press hard right where she needs them.

"I really thought you knew," he murmurs, something heavier than arousal in his voice now, something - wondering, and reverent. It makes her shudder. He's started up a rhythm on her clit, pressing hard twice and backing off for a few strokes, and it's somehow both maddening and fantastic that it's out of sync with the rhythm of Isabela's strong, questing tongue.

"Marian," he sighs, and that hits her so hard she has to bury her face in his neck to keen high and desperate, because when was the last time anyone called her that? Not since Mother, not since she had family in this vast empty house of hers instead of just merchants and servants and supplicants. It's always "Hawke", or "Champion", always deferential and imploring and demanding. But here, now, there is only giving, only generosity - between her legs, Isabela is tilting her head and shifting her mouth so she can kiss Hawke's cunt like a lover, her hands spread wide on Hawke's inner thighs. Varric strokes one big hand over her heart, tracing the curve of her breast, and Hawke thinks she could float up into the sky if the two of them weren't anchoring her to the bed.

"Harder," she gasps, and he obeys her, and she writhes until she can get one hand free because she has to touch them somehow, has to feel them in her hands, tangible - Isabela's hair is soft between her fingers, and a moment later Varric's chest scorching hot and dense with muscle beneath her palm. She feels like she's going to break apart into pieces, can only pray neither of them lets go of her because she's not sure she knows how to put herself back together.

"Marian," Varric says again, pushing a sob from her throat. She can feel the hum of his deep lovely voice against her lips, pressed to his neck, and everything about him is so solid and steady and real. "You're doing beautifully, Marian, I always knew you'd be incredible—"

It's ridiculous because she's not doing anything, but she can't form proper words to tell him so - all she can do is soak up his praise and pretend she understands. Isabela's fingers have taken over for her tongue and she's leaning up, kissing a damp path up Hawke's side, nipping at a hipbone, a rib - Hawke gasps - a nipple - until she's bestowing biting kisses on Hawke's neck. There will be bruises.

"He's right, sweet thing," Isabela says. "I had an inkling of course, but to see it like this - you are a wonder."

"It's going to be okay, Marian," Varric says, his husky voice so slow and soft against the frantic movements of her hips and her shuddering gasps. "You're tight as a bowstring but you don't have to be. Let go of it. Just for a little while. You can do this, Marian."

She wants to say that she can't, that the whole damn city could go to pieces if she lets her guard down, but Varric keeps talking, telling her it won't, it won't, she's just here in her bed with her friends, and they love her. Let them look after her.

She comes on a cry that feels torn from somewhere deep inside of her. None of the feeble orgasms she’s brought herself to alone in this empty bed can even come close – she melts back against Varric like a drunken woman, boneless. Isabela is pressing little kisses along her jawline and on her nose and eyelids, and Varric seems to be nuzzling into her hair. She summons up the last of her strength to pull her arm out from behind her and reach up to touch Varric’s dear face, his massive rough jaw and the crinkly smiling corners of his eyes and his thick hair, starting to come loose from its tie.

Isabela kisses the corners of her eyes, and perhaps there was just the beginning of tears there, but Isabela doesn't say a thing. Slowly, gently, she rearranges Hawke, pulling her down to lie flat on the bed, her head on Varric’s thighs. She feels a stab of guilt, wondering if he’s still as hard as he was against her hip, before– and thinking of Isabela, too, still all keyed up – but she’s so comfortable, and her limbs still don’t want to cooperate, and…

"Later," Hawke manages to say, shakily, “We’re going to try that again, a little more – reciprocally.” Isabela laughs, quiet but filled with promise, as she runs a hand down Hawke’s flank, hip to knee. Hawke’s whole body is tingling a little – her head is still humming, but there's a satisfaction in her limbs that she hasn't felt in - years, probably.

“Right now, though, I - might fall asleep,” she adds.

Varric smooths a hand over her hair while Isabela reaches down to the foot of the bed and pulls up the bottom of the quilt to lay it over Hawke's body.

"That's quite all right, sweet thing," Isabela says. "Maybe if you ask nicely, Varric will even tell you a bedtime story."


End file.
